


Scent of a Woman

by esoemp



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoemp/pseuds/esoemp
Summary: Sherlock gets a cold and can't smell the perfume John scents at a crime scene. Sherlock decides the best way to jog John's memory is to expose John to a variety of perfumes in the hopes one will match that of the murderess. The intended experiment goes off the rails entirely, and our boys find themselves in a compromising situation.Takes place months after they meet and after The Great Game.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt writing Johnlock. I hope you enjoy it! I plan to write more, and any suggestions are very much welcome! Not beta'd or brit picked. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 1

It was indecent the way the pink tulle on the frilly tutu contrasted with the curly black hairs surrounding the man’s groin. The victim lay bare from the waist up, with only the frilly garment, a pair of black patent leather stilettos, and a rather sizable screwdriver wedged in his occipital lobe for adornment. Sherlock twirled around the body taking in all the details of the murder scene. As per usual, Lestrade had ushered out the forensics crew, allowing John and Sherlock to survey the clues they might otherwise miss. Well that John and NSY might miss. John was no fool, but bereft of any delusions he was as clever as the “World’s Only Consulting Detective”. Aka flatmate, aka tall posh git, aka loathsome berk who wouldn’t let John finish dinner before whisking him off to a crime scene that was sure to ruin all future attempts at eating for the remainder of the evening. Not that eating after seeing a corpse usually bothered John. It was only that the man who’d somehow managed to find his head on the receiving end of a screwdriver had enjoyed the exact same meal as John only an hour before his demise. The contents of the takeout box sat cooling in the corner of the office, inundating the atmosphere with the scent of buttery noodles and over seasoned meat. There was another scent in the office that lingered in the air near the body, but John’s mind remained focused on studying Sherlock’s wobbly gait with more concern.

Once Sherlock had received the clandestine text from Lestrade in the restaurant John eyed his plate woefully as he paid the check and dashed away with his flatmate. Now at the crime scene, John glanced over at the naked man in the tutu and wondered if he’d be able to eat beef ho fan again without thinking of hairy legs and ballerinas. The victim really hadn’t the legs for such a get-up. The only person that came to mind who did, however, was Sherlock, and John was not exactly going to dwell on that subject any more than necessary, as he’d managed to do with all the other times he’d imagined Sherlock in clothes (or lack thereof) during the last several months sharing a flat with the cracked genius. A loud sneeze interrupted his thoughts from the aforementioned. He winced as Sherlock wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his treasured Belstaff in annoyance. Sherlock’s _transport_ had seen fit to bless him with a cold the day before, and the man’s pallor was even paler than usual, if such a thing were possible. His sooty eyes were slightly swollen and itchy, and his customary baritone voice had morphed into something akin to a croaking teenager hitting puberty. It should have given John some pleasure to watch his friend fall prey to the human condition and be so insulted at his immune system’s betrayal—as the prat was constantly bragging about being able to control his body’s functional aspects. But John had found the initial humor to have worn out quickly, morphing into pity and frustration Sherlock wasn’t going to bother changing his routine simply because he was suffering from a strain of rhinovirus.

Lestrade had already tried to shoo the detective away, citing the possible contamination of the murder scene and potential infection for himself and his officers, but John thought it was more likely out of concern for the inspector’s friend. John had, of course, already attempted to put Sherlock on bed rest. Which worked for all of 6 hours, resulting in one of Sherlock’s more spectacular sulks on the couch. The detective sent John 15 texts demanding the doctor come up with a cure for the common cold since John clearly had better things to do than saving the general populace from warts and stomach ulcers. After John finished up at clinic His Highness had texted him to say that he might take John up on his advice to eat bland noodles and ingest more fluids, if _only_ John would agree to meet him at a favorite Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from their flat. John had fallen for the ploy, as naturally Sherlock had been waiting on a text from Lestrade the entire time. Sherlock must have planned ahead for John to be at least _somewhat_ sated with food before dragging him off to solve another mystery, but John had only managed to eat around a quarter of the dinner before sprinting after Sherlock. Although this case was at best a 6, as far as John could see. But then how could John know what constituted a 4 or an 8—as Sherlock seemed to keep his numeric system of interest under a tight cloak of intrigue.

At the crime scene John waited patiently for Sherlock to regale him with an explanation regarding how the murder happened, and where Lestrade could find the screwdriver assailant.

“Got anything yet, Sherlock?” Lestrade prompted after what seemed like an eternity for Sherlock to examine the body with his loupe and take some samples from under the victim’s nails and around the head wound. Sherlock scowled. Had a deduction _actually_ ever eluded him? Usually he rambled on about “obvious” clues amid various jibes about his disappointment in the general lack of competency of the NSY by now, pausing for John’s “brilliant!” and “amazing!” praises. But the grim set of Sherlock’s mouth and the tension in his jaw made it clear his customary deductions were not forthcoming any time soon. At least not verbally. That in and of itself was disturbing.

“Check with the bouncer about who was close to the victim and notify me immediately if you find anything,” Sherlock ordered imperiously, depositing his test samples into his pockets.

Lestrade nearly gaped before recovering himself and whinging, “That’s it? I could have done that…”

But Sherlock quelled the D.I.’s objections with a withering glare and motioned for John to follow him, even rushing past Donovan and Anderson without so much as a casual taunt, the billowing of his Belstaff the only indication of the speed with which he departed the night club. The location was at best a spot for young ravers to drop X and dance their cares away in the outskirts of London, and at worst a drug den waiting for something like this to happen given the appearance of some of the clientele.

Once they were out of sight of the police Sherlock secreted a jumble of wadded up tissues from his pocket and blew his nose with a noisy honk of protest for his efforts. The detective looked in disgust at the mucus as though it were some offense towards his person before sneezing again in utter misery.

“Alright you, I think you’ve had quite enough fun tonight. It’s nearly freezing and you need a hot shower and some tea if you don’t want to collapse tomorrow.” This statement earned John an expression of indignation for his concern, but John steered his friend towards the cab Sherlock miraculously hailed from the sidewalk—in unspoken assent to heed his doctor’s instructions. Or at least John hoped. There really was no telling with Sherlock.

After they got to the flat, Sherlock lumbered up the stairs to hang up his coat and scarf before collapsing on the couch into a great heap of grumpiness. John made some tea, and noted with wry amusement how every time Sherlock attempted to enter his mind palace, snot would run down his steepled fingers and rouse the detective from his thoughts. John finished the tea and set a cup on the table next to his friend meaningfully. When Sherlock didn’t immediately take the beverage John knitted his brows in irritation and laid a hand on Sherlock’s heated forehead. He stood up to fetch some paracetamol and returned to find Sherlock glaring at him in reproach. John’s grim expression must have indicated the medicine was nonnegotiable and Sherlock acquiesced with a grunt.

“You’re loving this aren’t you,” Sherlock managed after he swallowed the pain medicine—without tea—in an act of defiance.

“No, no I’m not actually,” John answered; he mostly meant it because his friend looked so pitiful. But when Sherlock gave him _that look_ that said, “really, John, you’re going to lie to _me_?” John chuckled a bit and admitted, “yeah, ok, it’s a little amusing to see the most brilliant man on the planet have his arse handed to him by the common cold. Though I do want you to rest up and get better.”

Sherlock made no reply and sniffed as John grabbed a blanket and offered it as consolation. Sherlock turned on his side and, with an exaggerated sigh, John laid the blanket over his friend, before getting up to prepare for bed. A half hour later he heard water running downstairs, indicating Sherlock had chosen to follow at least _one_ more suggestion and take a shower. John hoped it was hot enough to clear up some of the congestion in his friend’s chest and considered going downstairs to knock on the door to the loo to remind him of the temperature before dismissing the idea on account Sherlock might be too knackered to remember a flannel if he opened the door to bark at John for his coddling. John had to wave off the mental image of a semi-helpless Sherlock toddling about starkers and requiring physical assistance to get back to bed and listened instead for the water to shut off. He heard Sherlock’s door shut, and John rolled over to close his eyes. This was going to be a long week.

 

Chapter 2

 

John awoke to the sound of glass breaking downstairs and groaned. If he lived anywhere else, perhaps he would have shot out of bed to investigate. But as he lived with a maniacal scientist he knew Sherlock had likely destroyed something in his makeshift lab on the breakfast table.

John dressed and made his way downstairs in a groggy haze for a visit to the loo before taking stock of the developing situation in the kitchen. As he surveyed the flat, he was relieved to discover that this time there was no smoke to accompany Sherlock’s experiment. There was, however, an extraordinarily ill detective slumped and pouting at the table. Shards of glass littered the floor and John retrieved a broom to clean up the mess, as Sherlock was in no condition to be bending over to do it himself, let alone conducting experiments.

“It didn’t work,” Sherlock complained, or rather rasped.

“Your experiment?” John queried as he filled the kettle at the sink.

“No. The shower. The fluids. The paracetamol,” Sherlock groused with a wave of his hand.

“It’s not magic, Sherlock. Eat some chicken soup, drink lots of water, and take the medicine at regular intervals and you will eventually survive the betrayal of your transport,” John answered with a sigh. He didn’t have time to engage in one of Sherlock’s tantrums before he went to the clinic, and decided he’d better pick up something to eat for himself on the way. If he remained at the flat any longer he might be tempted to take a day off to play sick nurse, and, after all, it really was just a little cold even if Sherlock did look like hell.

“But I can’t THINK, John!” Sherlock exclaimed and slammed his fist on the table. “My brain is going to rot if I—” Sherlock sneezed before he could finish his sentence, glaring at John as though the doctor was responsible for his body’s malfunction.

“You’ll just have to wait on the case, Sherlock.” John attempted to add a bit of sympathy to his tone in an effort to calm his friend.

“Tell me what you saw at the crime scene, John,” Sherlock demanded. “I need more data.”

With a sigh John poured his tea and motioned for Sherlock to follow him into the sitting room. John clung to the feeble hope if he provided Sherlock with his observations now he could avoid the dozens of texts the detective would send him at the office. “I saw a man who clearly has a fetish for crossdressing in the back room of a seedy dance club. Other than the screwdriver in his skull he sustained no other injuries—no scratches or bruising on the body or evidence of sexual assault. Based on the angle of impact it appears the man was attacked from behind and caught unawares.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and careened into the couch with a huff and a groan, apparently forgetting that a cold came with sore muscles. “Obvious,” he croaked and waved his hand in dismissal. “Anything else, anything at all I might have…missed.” Sherlock winced at the admission of his own limited capacity to remain objectively observant.

“No, nothing,” John began and took another sip. He really needed to be going, but then a thought struck him. “There was one thing…” Sherlock perked up and gazed at him imploringly. “I did smell perfume. And not the victim’s—it was just, in the air…”

Sherlock shot out of his seat and seized John’s head with both hands, and John fought to maintain his composure in the face of Sherlock’s proximity and the pleasurable sensation of having the man’s long, cool fingers cupping his cheeks. Sherlock leaned forward with an intense expression of dissatisfaction, his runny nose inches away from John’s.

“Why didn’t you say anything at the scene?” Sherlock rasped angrily.

“I was a bit distracted, yeah! Now get away from me you berk, before you get me sick too!” John tried to ignore the flick of his eyes to Sherlock’s reddened lips and flushed cheeks, which likely meant that fever had returned in full force.

“Of course it _matters_ , John!” Sherlock hissed and whirled away from his friend. “Did it never occur to you the perfume _might_ indicate the suspect’s identity?”

“Frankly, no. Maybe it was worn by Donovan or one of the other forensic investigators.”

“Have you ever _smelled_ Donovan, John?” Sherlock sneered and added, “She doesn’t _wear_ perfume. The closest thing she has to a scent is Anderson’s deodorant.”

John had to concede Sherlock had a point. He might have felt guilty for not sharing the information with Sherlock last night had he not been so preoccupied watching his friend shuffle about the crime scene looking like death warmed over.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but there’s nothing that can be done about it now. You’re too sick to deal with a case, and the perfume will have dissipated by the time you can use your preternatural powers of olfaction to locate a culprit. You’ll just have to let the Yard do their jobs.”

Sherlock looked utterly shocked at the very concept of defeat and rolled over on the sofa to face the wall.

“Take the medicine and eat some soup. You’ll be better before you know it.” Sherlock didn’t answer, but John hadn’t really expected him to deign his doctor with a response. With a heavy sigh John grabbed his coat and went to work.

 

Chapter 3

 

John scrubbed his face as the elderly Mrs. Fitz, having bravely received her flu shot, made her way out of the examination room. It had been a long day at the clinic, but not exhausting. John knew Sherlock would be in no condition to run amok through London’s alleyways chasing leads, so he consigned his expectations to a quiet evening at 221B Baker Street. Perhaps he could catch up some reading, or persuade Sherlock to watch some crap telly. John was a fantastic sick nurse. He retrieved his phone from the desk, intending to send Sherlock a text to determine if the can of chicken soup still remained uneaten before noting he’d received a text from his flatmate.

_Presence required at corner of Brompton Road, Knightsbridge –SH_

Well that wasn’t surprising exactly.

_Should I bother asking why?_

_Case lead. Obvious. –SH_

_You should be in bed._

_You should be here. –SH_

_Could be dangerous. –SH_

Hours later John exited the cab and Sherlock grasped his wrist to pull him into Harrods department store. “Come along, John!” Sherlock ordered as he led John through the crowd. When they reached the escalator Sherlock allowed John to free his hand. He sorely wished a hand sanitizer station would be readily available once they’d reached their destination. Sherlock looked only slightly better—he wasn’t swaying on his feet, but the discoloration under his eyes and reddened nostrils of his chaffed patrician nose were clear indicators he will still very sick. Sherlock was practically vibrating his excitement however, and John welcomed the sympathetic rush of adrenaline in his own blood.

“Right then. Why are we here, Sherlock?” John glanced around them warily. Sherlock had the tendency to forget mentioning inevitable altercations when they cornered a suspect and the seething mass of people surrounding them was going to make a chase difficult.

“Patience, John,” Sherlock rasped and John tried not to roll his eyes. Sherlock liked this bit where he kept John in suspense. It was practically performance art for the posh git, who clearly knew the layout of Harrods well. They rode the escalator in silence and dismounted on the 6th Floor. A sign overhead read: Salon de Parfums. Before John could inquire again Sherlock erupted in a monumental sneeze and the salespeople at the counters winced. Not in sympathy. A pretty red haired saleswoman’s fingers itched towards disinfectant spray behind her register, but seemed to be repressing the urge to blanket herself in Lysol in the hopes she wouldn’t offend her potential customers.

Sherlock removed tissue from his pocket and dabbed at his nose in scorn before adjusting his features into something more “charming rich bloke”. He strode towards the woman a hair trigger from running away from the germ factory that was Sherlock Holmes.

John wasn’t sure if he felt admiration or pity for the saleswoman as she schooled her features as well. “Good evening gentlemen. What can I do for you?” Her tone was light and passive. Professional.

“Good evening,” Sherlock began and looked at the lady’s name tag, “Monica. My friend John here is looking for some perfume for his girlfriend.” He broke into a sheepishly delightful grin and added conspiratorially, “You see, he smelled the most exquisite fragrance the other day at a soiree but was unable to locate the wearer to ask the name of the scent.”

John felt his cheeks flush warm as Monica’s face lit, now clearly enjoying Sherlock’s proximity. Even sick Sherlock was a gorgeous specimen of a man. She twisted a fingertip around a lock of auburn curls on her neck and leaned in closer, seemingly enchanted by the detective. Sherlock knew his flatmate had a predilection for red-haired women so John cleared his throat and stepped forward competitively. “Yes, I’m afraid I wasn’t able to determine what it was, but it. Was. Enchanting.” John enunciated the last few words with a tap on the glass, meeting Monica’s eyes roguishly. She tittered her approval.

“Yes, well, you see, _John_ is going to need some assistance as he absolutely _refuses_ to have anything but that one _particular_ scent for his fair lady.” Sherlock made John sound like a real poncy arsehole, and the doctor had to grit his teeth to repress a growl. Monica was giving off some pretty clear signals she wouldn’t have minded helping John with a few other items on his shopping list.

“Only the best for my girl,” John added with a wink and Monica blushed. Her eyes glittered under her lashes and John had to resist giving the whole charade up. Case or not, she was stunning. She licked her lush lips and looked down, giving John an opportunity to admire her pert breasts on the counter. With a side glance he caught Sherlock rolling his eyes and tilting his head in his most _get on with it man_ expression.

“Can you describe it to me, John? ” Monica leaned forward seductively. “Was the scent something you would describe as spicy or sensual?” She let the words flow from her lips in invitation. “There are so many…varieties…”

“Yes, John! For godssake. Are we talking floral or earthy? What? What did you smell?” Sherlock sneezed and the spell was broken. Both Monica and John turned their heads away from the spray. “Apologies.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I haven’t got any experience with perfume.” John protested, suddenly taking in the sheer number of bottles littering the counters in the salon. This was ridiculous.

Sherlock glowered at him, but Monica came to his rescue. “What if I let you smell some samples? I’ll pick a few recommendations, along with the one I’m wearing now.” She winked at him and leaned across the counter to invite him to smell her lovely neck. John felt Sherlock’s gloved hand push him hard into Monica’s hair and she squeaked in surprise.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John balked and held up his hands in apology. “I’m so sorry, Monica.” She looked fairly ruffled by the experience but took a deep breath and went back into sales mode with a feeble laugh.

“Not a problem. Did you smell anything you liked?” She bit her lip awaiting his response, squirming her legs together behind the counter. Christ, what he would do to get her somewhere more private and tell her everything he _did_ smell.

“Ah yes, actually,” John snickered.

“Was it the _one_ , John?” Sherlock prompted. His eyes had taken on a predatory gleam under the façade of the charming rich boy that unnerved John in its intensity.

“Ah, no, sorry,” John said sheepishly then added quickly, “Oh but it was very lovely. Perhaps you could write down the name and your information in case I decide to purchase that one instead, yeah?” John hoped with every fiber of his being she would take the hint and give him her number. Monica seemed to nod in understanding and directed their attention towards some slips of paper surrounding a set of bottles.

“This one is Femme de HJ by Henry Jacques,” Monica said as she squirted a bit of the perfume on a slip of paper. “The top notes are very floral—iris, geranium, and clary sage—while the bottom notes are more sensual and spicy—patchouli and musk. You may also detect tones of jasmine in the middle.”

John leaned forward and his senses were inundated with the exotic fragrance. It smelled heavenly. “Mmmm,” he purred. “That is lovely.” Monica preened and he ventured to ask, “How much?” He was ready to be done and go home. There was no way he was going to be able to smell everything in the store.

“It’s an exclusive here at Harrods. Only 425 pounds.” Monica chirped happily.

John nearly wheezed, wondering momentarily if he would be charged for smelling the damn stuff.

Sherlock chuckled darkly behind him. “Well, John, anything your _gal_ would like?” John shook his head weakly and Monica seemed to hide her dejection well. The poor lass hadn’t caught on she wasn’t going to be getting a sale from either of them this evening. Nevertheless, Sherlock had John smell 10 more fragrances before John held up his arms in aggravation.

“No more, Sherlock. I can’t smell anything anymore.” John gestured to the enormity of the next display. “And you,” he pointed accusingly, “You’re going to infect half of bloody London if you don’t get back to bed.”

Sherlock sniffed in disdain, which only exacerbated the whooping sneeze that followed. Monica cringed away. Even she was tiring of the hunt for the world’s most intriguing scent with the detective nearby. She slid John a slip of paper and John was truly relieved to discover she’d written her number on it. “I do hope you will come back to try again soon,” Monica chimed from behind the counter as Sherlock twirled away towards the escalator. John thanked her and fell in behind his friend.

“I hope you’re happy, Sherlock,” John grumbled. “I wouldn’t be able to remember the smell anyway.”

“Not true, John,” Sherlock asserted casually. “The human nose has the best memory of all the senses.”

“Ta, well, I am not doing that again. It was stifling up there.”

“Was it then?” Sherlock quipped and shoved his hands into John’s pocket to retrieve Monica’s number. “Then you won’t be needing this.” He crunched the paper between his fingers and tossed it in a bin before John could stop him.

“You…bloody twat,” John murmured in shock.

 

Chapter 4

 

Two days later John returned to the flat after making a much needed trip to Tesco for essentials to find Sherlock working on an experiment at his workstation--no--kitchen table. That’s what it was, no matter what Sherlock considered its intended purpose. He dragged the heavy bags to a reasonably clean spot on the counter by the fridge and proceeded to deposit the groceries on the shelves marked “STERILE! NO SHERLOCK!!!”. When John closed the door, a bizarre smell hit him.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock leaned back over his microscope to replace another slide, not looking up at his flatmate. John eyed the experiment over Sherlock’s shoulder. His flatmate momentarily tensed under the scrutiny.

“Did we have a client?”

“No,” Sherlock hummed. “Why do you ask?”

 _Because the entire kitchen smells like perfume, you git._ “Oh, no reason.” John could play this game too. He turned to start the kettle. Sherlock would cave soon, he always did if John took his time with his own meager deductions.

Sherlock’s heart shaped mouth drew thin but he resumed his machinations with the supposed “experiment”, which looked more to John like empty slides. Sherlock’s pulse fluttered on his pale neck--heart rate slightly elevated. Oh, this was going to be _good_. Had Sherlock just run into the kitchen after dousing himself in ladies perfume? John suppressed a giggle by clearing his throat. John finished making the tea and naturally slid Sherlock’s cup next to him to stroll back into the sitting room. He unfurled one of his medical journals and began to sip at his tea, his eyes gingerly avoiding Sherlock’s hunched form in the kitchen. After studiously ignoring Sherlock’s sighs and grunts of annoyance--which thankfully were no longer honking sneezes--John hazarded a casual conversation.

“Hmmm…” he started off slowly and waited to see Sherlock’s head tilt ever so slightly away from his feigned project. “That’s really strange.”

Sherlock’s body bowed with apprehension on the stool, but the detective still pretended to be focused on his task. “What’s strange, John?”

John hid his smirk behind his cup and hmmed. “Well, it’s just...that ever since I got back to the flat I can’t help but start thinking about Lacy Cannes.” John shook his head as though to clear it, watching Sherlock toy with the knob on the scope.

“Who is that? Someone you know here in London?” Sherlock’s curiosity was barely controlled at this point, so John frowned to cover his glee. Sherlock never asked John questions about his mating rituals, having ordered John never to share unless someone died while performing them.  

“No, no, not in London.” He turned another page of the magazine and let his eyebrows wander to his hairline as though he’d just discovered an article worth reading. He could practically _hear_ Sherlock glowering at him, then added offhandedly, “we used to date, back in Uni.” Another page. Another.

“John, if you’re going to insist on idle chit chat I suggest you call up Gad.” Sherlock snorted and turned away as though he’d become suddenly very interested in the cooling tea by his arm.

“Beautiful tits though,” John persevered, squashing the urge to get up and see if his flatmate was blushing. “Amazing arse too. Firm and plush…and oh my god, her mouth...”

“CHRIST John! Do you recognize the perfume or NOT?!” Sherlock bellowed from the kitchen, slamming his fist into the table.

For a moment John just sat in shock at the display before descending into maniacal giggles. “Only on Lacy, Sherlock. Jesus did you actually just put on ladies perfume to see if it matched the one from the crime scene?”

“Well at least I’m still trying.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “And it’s not as though you’ve been back to Harrods to see Megan.”

“Monica.” John corrected, wiping a tear from his eye. “You tit, you smell awful.”

That drew Sherlock’s ire and John regretted it for a moment before collapsing into another fit of giggles.

“You put on too much, Sherlock! Open a window for Christ's Sake. Or take a shower.” John was going to add more insults but he saw the horror stricken expression in Sherlock’s eyes and grew quiet. He was only teasing, and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He wasn’t normally so sensitive. John drew in a startled breath as a blush tinted Sherlock’s neck and ears crimson.

“Thank you, John, That was very...informative. I will adjust the parameters appropriately.” Sherlock quickly stood up and whirled into his bedroom before John could apologize, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

 

Chapter 5

 

John waited a couple hours for Sherlock to emerge and offer his apologies for offending his delicate olfactory constitution, but the man never appeared. Finally John gave up and went to bed, but was surprised Sherlock wasn’t waiting for him in his customary roost in the kitchen when he went down the next morning.

“Now I’ve done it,” John mumbled to himself, quickly making his breakfast and heading to work. Several hours later, after he still hadn’t heard anything from the cracked genius John sent him a text.

 _How’s your_ … Delete.

 _Your nose is probably still stuffy_ … Delete.

 _You couldn’t have known how much you were putting on Sherlock_ … Delete

 _I was only teasing. It wasn’t that bad_ … Delete.

_How are you feeling?_

John waited several minutes staring at his phone. He didn’t know why it mattered so much to console Sherlock. The detective had done countless experiments on him--without his permission thank you very much--so it only seemed fair John should get in a little ribbing when one wasn’t successful. But Sherlock’s expression held something more than simple embarrassment. Something unnamed. Something like hurt.

_Better. Apologies for my miscalculation. -SH_

_Don’t have to apologize. Your nose is still compromised._

_Any leads?_

John sent the next text quickly, feeling that a change in topic was expeditious. He didn’t want Sherlock to think of his flatmate keeping track of his physical ...symptoms any more than necessary. And John didn’t want to think about why Sherlock would care so much about what he smelled like. Surely.

_None. -SH_

_Well keep at it. I’m sure something will come along soon._

_Tikka masala tonight? -SH_

_Sounds great ..._ Delete.

_Sure. I’ll pay._

Treating Sherlock to dinner was the least John felt he could do after damaging the man’s fragile ego. It wasn’t gallant, just friendly.

 

Chapter 6

 

The tikka masala smelled heavenly. Despite the take out boxes John elected to serve the meal on a set of newly washed plates. One could never be too careful. Seeing John take the initiative for something more than the usual styrofoam fanfare Sherlock had very politely cleaned off a section of the table from his mold experiment for them to enjoy their dinner. They sat down to what was hopefully mold free, domestic bliss. Thankfully the experiment didn’t smell. However, when John reached behind Sherlock to hand him his plate, Sherlock _did_. It was a lovely scent. Musky, floral, but something more.

“You didn’t buy that perfume from Monica did you?” John blurted out before he could stop himself.

Sherlock grinned. “I may have persuaded her to give me a sample.”

John exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Sherlock spending nearly 500 quid on ladies perfume was a bit much, even for him. “Thank goodness.”

John took a bite and moaned at the delicious flavor of the dish. When he looked up, Sherlock’s eyes were dark and he licked his lips. “What?” John asked with an apprehensive laugh. “Did she ask about me?”

Sherlock turned back to his food, looking a bit crestfallen before he picked up his fork with a smirk. “No, John. Three Continents Watson is no match for the World’s Only Consulting Detective.”

“Right. Well unfortunately for her that isn’t really your area.” John quipped, but the heated look in Sherlock’s eyes gave him pause. “Isn’t it?” He nearly squeaked. Monica really had been lovely, but didn’t seem like she’d be Sherlock’s type. Fuck. Whatever that was.

Sherlock snorted derisively. “No, but you have just proven my theory. You can remember scents, John.” He beamed at John in satisfaction. “Now we just have to narrow it down.”

“Narrow it down? Did you see how many bottles were in that store?” John shoved his napkin on the table. A bored Sherlock was one thing. But a bored Sherlock smelling like sensual women every night indefinitely was going to a problem. And fast. John hadn’t exactly been lying when he said he’d slept with Lacy Cannes at Uni. Just that he couldn’t remember her perfume. He was just about to tell Sherlock as much when the self proclaimed eternal bachelor interrupted him.

“Not a problem, John. _Monica_ has given me every indication she’s willing to be more than helpful in this area. She’s already given me her number to contact her when I run out of samples.”

Oh this bastard. “So she didn’t ask about me. And she’s going to help you with this experiment. Why didn’t she just ask me to help then, yeah? After all, I’m the one shopping for my _girlfriend_.”

Sherlock frowned. “Obviously I am more persuasive than you, John.” He winked. “Lovely girl.”

“Right. Of course. Tall dark and posh gets the girl.” John rolled his eyes.

“I don’t see what the problem is, John. And you forget that I’m not _after_ the girl. I’m after a suspect that has a penchant for wielding screwdrivers into men in ballerina tutus.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped into dangerous territory but John couldn’t stop himself.

“And what will you do after you’re done with her? Tell her ‘thanks for your participation’?” John sputtered indignantly.

“Not. My. Area,” Sherlock enunciated. “As you so _often_ remind me.” John couldn’t help but notice the way the color had risen to Sherlock’s cheeks and wondered if another conversation wasn’t being had entirely.

 _Sod it._ “If you want to play around with that poor girl’s heart be my guest.” John stood and dropped his plate in the sink with a loud clang. If Sherlock wanted to douse himself in ladies perfume the rest of his life John wasn’t going to stop him. Hell, maybe it’d be an improvement over Sherlock’s expensive shampoo and soap. Wickedly John hoped Sherlock would have to wear some cheap Britney Spears knock off in the very near future. And oh, he was going to give Sherlock a show.

 

Chapter 7

 

The next day John found Sherlock laying in his thinking pose on the sofa and didn’t waste any time. Without warning John dipped his head just above Sherlock’s curls and took an audible whiff of the scent. Sherlock gasped and turned upwards to meet his eyes, then raised an eyebrow inquisitively for John’s response.

“Ahhh….Erin Daniels.” John made sure to give Sherlock his most lascivious grin. “She was a peach.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John finished, “not the murderer’s. Have a good day, Sherlock.”

Later that evening after work John returned to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen counter again. “Got anything new on, Sherlock? Or will you be playing coy this evening?” The detective frowned and held out his wrist. John smelled it and licked his lips. “Patty Wilson, junior year. Not the murderer’s.”

And so it went on for nearly a week since he and Sherlock had their little domestic over tikka masala. Each morning Sherlock would hold up his wrist for John’s inspection and John would name off another of his conquests ending with the phrase “not the murderer’s”. Each evening Sherlock would don another perfume and the scenario would repeat itself. The rancor between them calmed down a bit after the first few days, and John wasn’t mad--well not too mad--anymore. He’d rather enjoyed having a reason to touch Sherlock’s slender wrists and smell the scents he’d procured, nearly forgetting his annoyance they’d been acquired in the poor Monica’s seduction. It was a silly game really, and John realized to his chagrin that if he did ever happen to catch the murderer’s scent it would be over. Sherlock was still Sherlock, and barely looked up from what he was doing when he proffered his wrist for inspection, waiting only for John’s commentary before delving back into whatever sordid task he had in front of him. In a couple attempts to annoy Sherlock John would go into more detail about his former lovers, mentioning the color of the women’s hair, or perhaps their cup size. But on those occasions Sherlock jerked his hand back as though John intended to perform the sex acts on him. John shouldn’t have been surprised because Sherlock didn’t _do_ sex, but it seemed almost like he _did_ do jealously. This morning John had been in a hurry before work and he grabbed Sherlock by the arm and swung him around in his chair. John ran his nose along the slender underside of Sherlock’s wrist and inhaled deeply before meeting Sherlock’s eyes, which were blown wide in surprise. The detective’s mouth fell open and John realized he’d completely invaded the other man’s space, and was, in fact, nearly between his knees.

“Sorry,” John huffed. “Uh, Melissa Finiss. Not the ...not the murderer’s” He dipped his head and backed away from Sherlock, who watched him leave in silence.

 

Chapter 8

 

Well. _That_ was an unexpected result. Sherlock sat in his chair eyeing the wrist John had just seized and brought it up to his mouth. The warmth from John’s touch was still there. He could smell the perfume of course, but there was still the lingering scent of John. Cheap shampoo, gun oil, and something muskier. Ah. John had been masturbating in the shower before work. No wonder he was running late. If not for the disgusting tang of the perfume the detective would have given the patch of skin where John gripped him a taste. For scientific purposes. No, that was a lie. And if anything Sherlock did not lie to himself. The two men had shared a flat for months now, and John smelled like home. Idly he wondered what home tasted like.

Sherlock had been training John for a week to smell his person and it had become second nature to both of them. There was an established pavlovian response whenever they greeted each other. The case had already been solved of course. As soon as Lestrade called in witnesses Sherlock had deduced the culprit. _Dull._ The game should have ended then. But the intimate touches and behavior from his flatmate intrigued him. Why had John allowed him to do this? Surely even John knew by now this was a farce. All John had to do was observe the data:

1\. John was angry not “getting the girl”. Contrary Evidence: John had made no effort to get in touch with Monique since the night he’d met her. Hypothesis. He was angry _Sherlock_ would get the girl. Incorrect. Subsequent data:

2\. John was angry Sherlock was _using_ the girl. Unfair. John knew Sherlock’s methods and she was at no risk for being properly seduced. It was her _job_ to sell men perfume for other women. Any expectations to the contrary were ridiculous. Supporting evidence: John _knew_ him. And the detective’s methods. Hypothesis: Jealousy?

3\. John made it a point to name the women he’d slept with after every touch. Interesting, because Sherlock had already looked each of them up online, and while they were real, John had given him false dates coinciding with sexual exploits. And, while scent is the most intense trigger for memory, it was unlikely for John to attribute so _many_ women with individual perfumes over such a span of time. John had to know by now Sherlock knew he was lying. Conclusion: John wanted the game to continue.

Extraneous (?) Data: John had increased his masturbatory schedule. Now he was wanking in the shower before work in addition to at his customary nightly rituals.

Hypothesis: Increase in physical intimacy had triggered something in his “not gay” flatmate. Natural response to stimuli.

It had certainly triggered something in Sherlock. Being touched was grossly discouraged for all who knew him. With the exception of John of course. But John was his doctor. And his friend.

Conflicting Data: Sherlock had to focus hard, _very_ hard on quelling his burgeoning erection whenever John drew near for their experiment. Physical intimacy triggered sexual response?

Supporting data: Masturbatory Schedule increased to 3 times per week, using John’s cheap shampoo. Legs spread involuntarily when John seized arm and sexual invitation was made: tilt of neck, dilated pupils, increased heart rate, heated skin.

Sherlock touched his lips and added another data point: Engorged lips. Despite John’s constant reminder that Sherlock “didn’t do relationships” a lot had changed between him and his flatmate. Well, not much for Sherlock. Ever since John had shot a man to save him from himself Sherlock had experienced varying levels of heightened awareness with John’s proximity. The consulting detective might not “do” relationships, but sex was hardly a relationship, though it certainly had the potential to destroy their partnership and bond of friendship. Sherlock hummed and realized he had rubbed the heel of his wrist into his erection. _Bloody hell._ Finish with the analysis already!

Conclusion: Experiment parameters yielding inconclusive data.

John was due to see Lestrade for pints the next evening, when it was likely results of the case will be shared. It was time to change the rules of the game. Variables had to be taken into account and more training would be necessary.

 

Chapter 9

 

John arrived home and found himself immediately drawn to Sherlock, who still sat perched on the stool in the kitchen. _When had this started again?_

“Ready for your inspection, Sherlock?” John called, then cursed himself for his choice of language. In fact, he’d been thinking of inspecting his friend all day at the surgery and had a hard (pun intended) time waiting to get home. It wasn’t his fault Sherlock had chosen to anoint himself with attractive smells normally reserved for women. It was a natural response.

“Certainly, Captain,” came the reply from the kitchen with a little chuckle, and John stopped short. Now that was something. He could get used to that. Focus. Do not repeat this morning. Just...get your _fix_.

Sherlock waited until John approached and held out his wrist obediently. _Obediently?_ This time John was careful not to invade Sherlock’s space. Which was somewhat more difficult as Sherlock had scooted the stool closer to the counter and turned to face away from the table. John stepped in, feeling the weight of the counter behind his arse, attempting to keep as much distance from his partner. Sherlock held his wrist out to John expectantly, though this time he seemed to be more attentive to John’s reaction than usual. Perhaps he was more confident he’d located the scent of the murderer? John leaned forward and smelled Sherlock’s wrist, barely grazing his pulse point with the tip of his nose. It was warm and inviting and it smelled nice. But it was also too faint.

“Did you, ah...did you forget to put anything on this afternoon?” John ventured carefully.

Sherlock’s face drew up in surprise. “Oh! I’m sorry John. I was performing an experiment and I couldn’t have my hands compromised. Chemicals.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s on my neck.” If John didn’t know any better he would have thought Sherlock was lying. And maybe he _was_ lying. This experiment really was getting out of hand.

And yet John _could_ believe it, because this was Sherlock, and he had no concept of the boundaries about sniffing your flatmate’s neck. All day John had been looking forward to smelling Sherlock’s wrist and this _was_ an excellent opportunity to smell another part of Sherlock’s anatomy. Before he could remember that perhaps Sherlock should turn around for this inspection he leaned in further towards Sherlock’s slender, pale neck. God. Jesus. The scent was intoxicating. What it must taste like. Self consciously John licked his lips. Sherlock made a little whimper and John withdrew to reconfigure his thoughts, realizing he had situated himself between Sherlock’s thighs again. He cursed as he realized he was half hard. An early night for bed then? That perfume was really good. And he had just sniffed Sherlock’s neck.  

Sherlock cleared his throat as John took great effort to pull back, and despite what the proximity must be doing to Sherlock, it was hard to allow the moment to end. _Please don’t look down_ , John thought desperately. _If I don’t look down, he won’t look down. Mustn’t turn...maintain eye contact. Act. Normal._

“Conclusion?” Sherlock prompted, his eyes blown a bit wider than seemed strictly necessary with the intrusion of his personal space. The git _had_ asked him to smell his neck and had made no move to turn around either, John thought in annoyance.

“Ah. Can’t think of anyone.” John answered. “That is, really nice though.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “That’s me, John.” He coughed. “I needed to test...for a baseline. To make sure my natural scent wasn’t interfering with the results.”

 _Bloody buggering fuck._ Sherlock blushed chest to ears and John had the sudden impulse to run his hands up the detective’s thighs to...comfort him in his embarrassment. He swallowed back the thought then nearly choked as Sherlock asked him another question.

“What do I smell like, John?” All of the sudden the light got very bright in the room and John realized how he must look to his flatmate, who’d just asked him to catalogue a baseline scent. But then this was Sherlock, so it made sense in its own way. Sort of.

“Umm, like Sandalwood?” John nearly croaked. “And, uh...something spicy. It’s... it’s quite nice. Good on you, Sherlock.” He felt the heat in his cheeks rising to irrational proportions and turned away quickly before he could see what his answer did to his friend’s expression. “Right then. Tea?”

“Yes, that would be lovely, John,” Sherlock said and swiftly turned back to his microscope.

John made a quick grilled cheese sandwich in order to expedite his egress towards his bedroom. His erection had flagged somewhat, but it was still insistently demanding his attention. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed preoccupied with his other experiment--a tray of toenails coated in an array of chemicals. That wasn’t the slightest bit arousing, but John pushed those thoughts aside as he closed the door of his bedroom. He quickly shucked off his clothes and laid in bed to take a few lazy pulls on his prick as he tried to remember the Sherlock’s scent. Under the sandalwood and whatever spicy thing the berk had going for him--John assumed his ridiculously expensive soap--there was something else. Something like male musk, but inherently Sherlock. John grunted and pulled back his foreskin to finger his slit and stroke his frenulum. He imagined Sherlock beneath him, writhing in the sheets as John sucked on the pale column of his neck, taking that heavy scent into his lungs, and marking his friend with his teeth. _Property of John Watson._ Sherlock’s body would be amazing, lithe but well muscled. Masculine, and demanding in his movements as he rutted against John’s belly and thighs. John suppressed a moan and bit his lip. Fuck. But that would be hot. He wondered how Sherlock’s mouth would taste, his tongue. Jesus, the juices from his cock. John began fucking his fist in earnest now. Sherlock’s tiny pink arsehole. Christ, his wet, pulsating arsehole opening up for John as he used his lube slicked fingers, then taking in John’s cock in measured thrusts. Slow at first, but then Sherlock’s legs would spread wide and drive John further into his tight wet heat. John envisioned tasting Sherlock’s fine sheen of sweat coating his back, taking the man’s leaking cock in hand as he pounded into his friend, making him scream his name until he was filled with come. _Oh fuck._

John came with a barely muffled shout, biting his wrist in the process and nearly drawing blood. As John lay panting and covered in come, the phrase “a bit not good” seemed like an understatement. He had quelled his impulses to fantasize about his best friend since they’d moved in together, dismissing the thoughts as impulsive and attempting to reframe them into the desire for more feminine forms. John wasn’t afraid he was gay. He was bisexual. That much had been proven to him in the army. Sherlock might have deduced John’s sexual preferences had his experiment involved _cologne_. And oh, how he’d been interested that first night at Angelo’s. John could barely contain his joy when Angelo had brought them a candle, and yet Sherlock had given him the “married to my work” speech. John was a good man. A good friend. And Sherlock was too brilliant a star to be hindered by the lust of an old army doctor. He sighed and rolled over to find a flannel and clean himself up. Now that he had allowed sex with Sherlock to become part of his fantasy there was no going back. He’d definitely do it again. John’s cock twitched with interest. Soon.  

 

Chapter 10

 

Sherlock only barely managed to contain his smug smile and elevated heart rate as he tried to refocus on the set of toenails in front of him. John said he smelled nice. Correction. _John had said he smelled quite nice._ _While_ his friend was nearly between Sherlock’s legs with a burgeoning erection. Fortunately, John hadn’t noticed the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, or the little whimper the detective made when he got a good whiff of _everything John_ when his friend leaned in to scent him. The tray of chemicals nearby adequately supported his story of not applying perfume to Sherlock’s wrists, but he hadn’t imagined John would be so blatant to come forward and smell Sherlock’s neck without asking him to turn around. He had hoped John would take the initiative, but even in his wildest dreams he hadn’t thought John would be so obviously stimulated by the experience. Conclusion: John wanted to fuck him, no matter how often Sherlock’s “not gay” flatmate continued to correct friends and colleagues.

The variables had been addressed, but now it was imperative to devise a way for John to take more initiative. Sherlock took a moment to check with his internal assessment of what he wanted John to do. Sex was welcome. Very welcome in fact. And yet...John would inevitably want more. When it came to actual relationships of the romantic variety, Sherlock knew failure well, if his experiences with Victor at Uni were any indication. And he would fail John. Spectacularly. But the idea of going back to the status quo- he and John dancing around their mutual attraction to one another in the hopes of retaining that close friendship, seemed suddenly unbearable. He wanted John to kiss him, to fuck him. To cherish him. _Oh._

Sherlock grimaced. Sentiment. It was always sentiment that clouded his judgement. The Work took precedence. It had to, or Sherlock risked going insane. But in the months since John moved into the flat Sherlock found himself wondering if The Work wouldn’t be more open to a polyamorous relationship. After all, John was more than useful in The Work and Sherlock couldn’t imagine it continuing without John’s constant care and guidance. Even if the good doctor hadn’t seen fit to devise a cure for the common cold, John’s brilliance shone in so many other ways. He was a bright star, no longer in Sherlock’s periphery, the sun to his black hole. If the detective allowed this to continue, he would swallow John, engulf him, suck the life out of the man and destroy his shining light. Sherlock shoved the tray away and drew his hands up into his hair in frustration.

Perhaps there was a way. John would find a way. John was good at finding those compromises, keeping Sherlock steady in moments like this. But he couldn’t exactly ask his friend for advice in this area. Another experiment was necessary to determine John’s feelings on the matter, if his talk with Gordon didn’t yield appropriate results. Then suddenly Sherlock grinned. There was no reason he couldn’t continue to test John’s reaction to scent. The parameters simply had to be modified.

 

Chapter 11

 

Thankfully John saw neither delicious hide nor hair of Sherlock the next morning, grateful to avoid the awkward throat clearing and eye averting accompaniment of making breakfast. John already took himself in hand in the shower to alleviate the danger of hiding a hard on as he shuffled around his flatmate, who seemed to be doing quite a bit more sleeping than usual. How long could this continue before Sherlock caught on? Things were spiraling out of his control, and John was determined to venture into the minefield of having a crush on Sherlock Holmes with Greg later that evening. John winced in aggravation. It was more than a crush, if he was truly honest with himself. And Greg would know it, if his relationship with Mycroft was anything to go by. Those two were head over heels for one another, a development Sherlock loathed enough John was fairly certain the detective had set the D.I.’s name on a permanent delete setting from the great berk’s mind palace. And yet...Sherlock had become a beacon of brilliant light to him. His entire existence revolved around the man, for Christ’s Sakes. And now his nightly wanking. Suddenly John found himself in a resentfully foul mood as he made his way to the tube. Surely his best friend was made of more flesh and blood than he let on. After getting a good whiff of Sherlock’s actual scent, John hated the idea Sherlock would simply cover it up later to continue the blasted experiment that got them into this mess. It wasn’t as though John had never noticed the occasional waft of sandalwood from the detective. Just that he’d never been allowed to fully enjoy it or draw it into his lungs so fully until last night. Right. Don’t get a hard on in the tube, John. Focus on the severed head in the fridge, and maybe you’ll be able to get to work.

“And then the great git announced who the culprit was, as though he’d figured it out days ago,” Greg nearly spat into his beer. John gaped. “He was only too willing to point out we should have done our jobs as per bloody usual, and then…” Greg stopped when he saw the look on John’s voice. “Oi, what’s that about?”

John tried to hide the heat in his cheeks, taking a long drag from his pint and hoping the D.I. would attribute it to the effects of the alcohol, and not his indignation that Sherlock had not bothered to mention this through the duration of the perfume experiment. “How long has the case been solved then?” John managed after he leveled his breath.

“About two days.” Greg cast him a dubious look. “He didn’t tell you?”

John shook his head.

“Well, that’s...unusual,” Greg continued. “But he probably didn’t spare it a thought. You know how he gets more than any of us.”

“The thing is,” John croaked, “That bloody idiot has been dousing himself with perfume every morning and night, trying to trigger my memory for the scent of the murderer.”

Greg gaped at him, eyes wide, then started laughing. “You’re joking!”

“No, no. Every morning and night. And letting me smell him no less.” John stared ahead as he felt Greg’s eyes boring into the side of his face. When he worked up the courage to spare the D.I. a glance, Greg’s face had sobered up quite a bit.

“And how was that?” Greg queried seriously.

“You know what, it was bloody marvelous.” John snorted. “Does everyone know this but Sherlock?”

Greg took a deep sigh and seemed to look into the glass before him, as though it might provide answers to his introspection. “You know John, it’s just possible…”

“Don’t,” John interrupted him. “Don’t. Give me false hope. Or confirm my fears. I don’t think I can stand it anymore.” He scrubbed his face and attempted to collect his thoughts.

“Yeah, alright mate. But it’s just that if Sherlock had already solved the case, he had to know what he was doing to you.”

“Did he?” John asked in annoyance. “Maybe he just wanted to finish up his experiment. You know how bored he gets. How he latches onto an idea.” John snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used me in one of his mad projects.” But the ramifications of this particular experiment was _just not on_.

Greg frowned, took a deep gulp and turned to John. “Listen,” John went to open his mouth, but Greg held up his hand. “Let me finish. Don’t be a twat. You and Sherlock are...meant for each other.” The D.I. grinned. “And His Highness has to know it. He’s just shite at dealing with emotions.” John snorted. “Ok, really, _really_ shite. Maybe this is the opportunity you two need to take the next step. I know Myc would like that, despite his attempt to hide it. He’s been waiting ages for his arse of a baby brother to get himself sorted.” Greg smiled fondly when he said Mycroft’s name. John couldn’t help the hope that flooded his chest that maybe one day he and Sherlock would have that. If Greg had gotten through to the Ice Man, perhaps Sherlock wasn’t a lost cause after all. “Alright,” Greg said with determination. “It’s time to get pissed.”

 

Chapter 12

 

Sherlock glanced around John’s bedroom to survey his options. It wasn’t as though he’d never been in John’s room. He’d spent several occasions looking through John’s trunk looking for his gun, even discovering some mouthwatering photos of a young John in fatigues. He’d committed the image to memory before replacing the items. But it wasn’t as though Sherlock could use those for this particular endeavor. Sherlock sat on the bed and ran his fingers over the comforter. It was soft yet sturdy. And dangerously tempting. Just like John. Feeling nostalgic Sherlock curled up to rest his head on John’s pillow and sighed. John would be home soon and Sherlock hadn’t found anything more suitable. Fuck it. John’s pillow would have to do. If John couldn’t pick up on Sherlock’s blatant invitation to experience carnal bliss with him after talking with Lestrade then he’d make it unmistakably obvious. Sherlock rolled over on his stomach and unbuttoned his shirt before nuzzling his cheeks over John’s pillow. He was careful to rub his curls over both sides, hoping John’s body heat would activate the scent to surround his head and inundate his senses when he jerked off. The image of John pumping his fist with his cock while smelling Sherlock all around him sent a shiver down the detective’s spine, not to mention a discomforting bulge in his trousers. Best to be thorough, he thought as he leaned back to undo his fly, allowing his heavy cock to pop free against his belly. It was already leaking, and Sherlock had the fantastic urge to just rut against John’s sheets. Instead he gave his prick a few tugs, careful to avoid the pre-come on the tip, and rubbed his hand just under John’s pillow. There. _That should do it,_ Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. He righted the sheets and went downstairs to his room to give himself some much needed relief.

 

Chapter 13

 

John hadn’t intended to stay so long at the pub but it seemed fitting. Cathartic. When he’d returned to the flat Sherlock sat perched on the leather chair in the sitting room typing furiously on his laptop. Steadying himself, John reached only for Sherlock’s proffered wrist and grunted in annoyance when he was struck by how divine his friend smelled. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to don any perfume again (why bother?), and John decided to save that conversation until the next day. He didn’t have to be at work until Monday and he planned to devise a plan of action for confronting Sherlock, if he managed the courage. As it was, Sherlock The Tease hadn’t uttered a word to John after the inspection, leaving the doctor to make his way upstairs to collapse into the softness of his comforter.

The haze of alcohol swamped his senses, but John was determined to have his nightly wank after smelling his friend’s wrist again, sobering up just enough to divest himself of his jeans. Jesus. He could still smell Sherlock. It was as though the smell had traveled with him up the stairs and onto his bed. John stifled a groan as he dug the heel of his hand against his erection, wondering how Sherlock would touch himself, and if he ever thought of John. _He probably thinks of bees or something,_ John chuckled to himself. Or catalogues the entire affair. Christ, but why was that hot? John would love to hear Sherlock categorize what it felt like to have John’s mouth wrapped around his cock, eagerly sucking him off. John would use some of Sherlock’s slick before pressing a knuckle up against his perineum, then circling that delicious little arsehole, reducing the detective into a babbling mess as he slid his fingertip inside. They’d have lube of course, and John would take his time opening his friend up, rolling Sherlock’s bollocks against his tongue before sucking them into his mouth and pulling ever so gently, before returning to mouth the crown of his manhood. He wouldn’t stop until Sherlock was moaning his name over and over again as he fucked his mouth, his nipples hardening in the moonlight. _John. John, yes…suck me..._ and then a shout, as Sherlock’s eyes would widen in shock as he convulsed into ecstasy, filling John with hot, throbbing spurts. The image of Sherlock coming down his throat sent John over the edge, and he screamed his release in his pillow.  

 

Chapter 14

 

Sherlock kept his back to his friend as John made his way into the loo to take his shower. Once the door was closed--not locked--Sherlock had already disassembled every lock in the flat within weeks of the doctor’s arrival--Sherlock padded towards the bathroom and waited. Time for part 2 of the expanded experiment. After a sufficient amount of steam filtered through the crack in the door Sherlock entered the bathroom and pulled down his pyjama bottoms. The sound of John moaning stopped Sherlock in his tracks momentarily, as he heard the slaps and grunts of his flatmate masturbating under the spray. Fuck. He would give nearly anything to simply slide the curtain aside and join his flatmate, but the Seduce John Experiment _must_ be conclusive. Sherlock took John’s towel off the rack and slid it between his thighs, making sure it slipped between his arse cheeks and met the thread of pre-come on the tip of his cock. The cadence of John’s strokes was maddening. And increasing. Sherlock quickly deposited the flannel back in its place, pulled up his tented pyjama bottoms, and exited the bathroom, carefully pulling the door closed without a sound.

“Jesus…Fuck. Sherlock.” John groaned from behind the door. Sherlock froze in horror, before he realized it was his name falling from John’s lips as he found his release. The detective gripped the root of his cock, lest he come from the sound alone, and ran back to the kitchen. There wasn’t enough time to finish himself off before John came out of the loo, so he focused on gathering slides for his microscope. With any luck, the experiment would yield the intended results within a couple more days.

 

Chapter 15

 

John stepped out of the shower to retrieve his towel, fully sated and ready to have a rational, adult conversation with Sherlock over breakfast. Or, at least, he thought he was, until he smelled the strong musk of his flatmate on his towel. That bloody twat was still experimenting on him. This had gone on long enough.

John threw on his lounge pants and made his way into the kitchen to find Sherlock hunched over his microscope. “You manipulative bastard!” John growled, throwing the towel over Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s expression was satisfyingly shocked as he pulled the flannel away, but he quickly put on his mask of neutrality.

“Oh, no,” John huffed, “You don’t get to pretend you don’t know what’s going on.” Then with an exasperated sigh he added, “We have talked about this. Your...experiments crossing into unacceptable boundaries, Sherlock. Again.” John waved his hand at the towel. “Are you masturbating with my towels now to see how your scent affects me? Are you actually still on about this experiment?”

Sherlock’s body went rigid as he stood up from his chair and approached John warily. His body seemed closed off, as though covered in armor. “And, what results would you surmise I’ve gleaned from my studies?”

John swallowed. Sherlock was too close to be having this conversation, and was less than a foot away. God, his scent was getting stronger...John realized perhaps he should have made that trip upstairs to retrieve a shirt before instigating this dialogue.

“John?” Sherlock prompted softly, then raised his hand to trace a line of water that had made its way down John’s neck and over his clavicle. John was surprised by the gesture, but even more so that Sherlock’s outstretched hand was trembling slightly. Sherlock’s eyes were already half lidded with lust under the smudges of coal lashes. His breathing was erratic and the flush of his neck reached his ears. Sherlock _wanted_ him. Sherlock Holmes was standing before John fully aroused, hesitating in his desire to initiate a sexual relationship with John Watson. A flare of heat burned at John with the realization he was in control of this experiment, and Sherlock was at his mercy.

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips and he made a decision. Gripping Sherlock’s wrist, John pulled his friend’s head down with his other hand. He inhaled the scent of his flatmate and licked a stripe across the pulsepoint of his neck. Scent was one thing, but this, taste, was even better.

“John?” Sherlock squeaked, then gasped as John scraped his teeth over the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John chuckled, and continued his ministrations across the delicate tissues of his friend’s jaw and clavicle. John used his other hand to pull Sherlock’s slender hip closer and Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath.

“I wasn’t prepared for the results to come to fruition so soon. My calculations did not account for such an immediate response of the… the subject.” Sherlock rocked towards John in a placid trance and his eyelashes fluttered. Sherlock’s pearly white skin was overheated and glowed with a sheen of sweat as he swallowed.

John issued a wicked laugh and slid his hand under Sherlock’s waistband, dragging fingernails over the soft flesh of his arse. Sherlock bit back a groan, rolling his hips forward into John’s, and their erections slotted against one another under the fabric. Sherlock worried his lip and screwed his eyes shut at the contact, gripping the ball of John’s naked shoulder as though it were some sort of life preserver.

“The subject, eh? And what results were you expecting at the conclusion of your _very scientific_ endeavor? We have spoken about this, yeah?” His friend wasn’t moving, so John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s jaw. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock inhaled through his nose and opened his eyes, which were blown wide with fear and arousal, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against John’s. His countenance was fraught with emotion and he blinked several times before he answered. “I needed to know...if you wanted...Christ, _John_ , how I’ve _wanted…_ ” He nudged his chin forward and placed a chaste kiss against John’s lips, then pulled back to gauge John’s reaction, like a child taking a biscuit out of a cookie jar waiting for approval. He wanted? _He wanted!_

“You gorgeous idiot,” John breathed against his friend’s heart shaped lips and guided Sherlock’s mouth back to his. Sherlock whimpered with the contact, and John took control, guiding Sherlock backwards with his hands until the detective’s back was flush against the wall. He drew the taller man down to him and licked at the seam of his mouth until Sherlock granted him access. John explored gently at first, taking little sips, but then Sherlock sucked on his tongue and John couldn’t help but rumble in approval. This seemed to give Sherlock more courage and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue over teeth and nibbling on John’s lower lip. They plundered each other’s mouths, and the kiss became wet and filthy. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

“Tell me this is ok, John. Let me...” Sherlock husked and John released his wrist, having forgotten he still held the detective hostage. Sherlock ran his sinewy fingers over the ridge of John’s erection through the tented fabric. Sherlock’s touch ignited a fire trilling along every one of John’s nerve endings and he had to bite the side of his mouth to quell his urge to sob.

“God, yes,” John choked out and pulled at Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. Of course the berk wasn’t wearing pants, and Sherlock’s cock sprung free, leaking with its foreskin fully retracted. John divested himself of his bottoms and pants in one fluid motion. John’s prick bobbed against his stomach, twitching and aching for another release already. With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock grasped John’s cock and pulled, before slotting their members together and wrapping his absurdly long fingers around their shafts. Both men groaned with the contact--the thick heat and musk of them filling the air. Sherlock flicked his thumb over their slits and rounded the tips with the glistening fluid.

“Jessuuussss…” John gasped and helplessly pumped his hips. The velvety texture and color of Sherlock’s cock was exquisite. Rosy and long and lovely sliding along John’s thicker, darker prick. John leveraged himself against the wall and wrapped his other hand over Sherlock’s, leaning forward for another searing kiss. It was all too much and not enough. Sherlock panting and arching against him was a scene of fantasy. Surreal and breakable.  

As the deep and dirty friction built between them Sherlock began to undulate his hips, spreading his legs wider to match John’s thrusts. His whimpers pealed out soft and deep and it was exquisite to behold.

“Do you have any idea, Sherlock. _Any idea_ , how long I’ve wanted you?” John panted. “Wanted to mark your beautiful skin? I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you _for days_ , making you scream my name, filling you…”

Sherlock’s eyes dilated black and he stuttered, grabbing John by the scruff of his neck for support. “S-So good, John...Yes. _Fuck._ Fuck me like that…”

“Yeah, you want to come on my hand? On my cock? I will lick every drop off. God, I bet you taste amazing.”

Sherlock’s body drew tight and John squeezed his shoulder, pulling the man in for a bruising kiss and licking against his mouth. “Yes Sherlock, come for me. You gorgeous, brilliant creature.”

Sherlock threw his head back and howled as he came, his cock pulsing and drenching them both with his semen. Sherlock’s climax was so bloody marvelous, John took only a moment to look back down and see their hands covered, chanting, “Oh god oh god oh god” then coming with a curse and Sherlock’s name on his lips. John fell on his knees and took Sherlock’s softening erection into his mouth, sucking the come onto his tongue and Sherlock wailed, convulsing and thrusting his hips forward helplessly until John had mercy and focused his attentions on the dripping fluid still clinging between Sherlock’s thighs. And Sherlock _did_ taste good, salty and slightly sweet—the berk liked sweets--so there was barely any bitterness. It was heavenly. John wanted to do a victory lap for making Sherlock come apart so completely, but he wasn’t sure he could stand. His friend wasn’t faring any better, as Sherlock breathlessly staggered to the bathroom to retrieve a dampened flannel. He held it out to John, who grinned at his friend and accepted it gratefully. Now that the sex was over, John couldn’t help the niggling of doubt that bloomed in apprehension as to what they should do next.

Sherlock seemed to register the questions on John’s lips and he shook his head. “No, John. Bed. Now,” was all he managed as he held out his hand to pull John off the floor. John allowed Sherlock to lead him into his bedroom and they collapsed into the downy sheets—the ridiculously luxurious sheets—that seemed well deserved after what they’d just done. John was surprised when Sherlock manipulated himself into the crook under John’s arm and snuggled onto his chest. John wasn’t sure that his friend would be a cuddler after sex, but was so overwhelmed with love for the man he nearly cried at this display of affection. As their breathing regulated they drifted off to sleep, blissful in each other’s arms.

 

Chapter 16

 

John awoke a couple hours later to find Sherlock still resting against his chest. His friend was sleep warm and when John ran his fingertips through the silky brunette curls, Sherlock snuffled, spidering his long fingers through the wiry blonde hair on John’s chest.

John hummed in appreciation and circled his thumbs over the detective’s shoulder.

Sherlock looked up at him suddenly, eyes narrowed into catlike slits. “Must we, John?”

“Yes, I think needs must.” John chuckled and added, “It isn’t every day I shag my best friend you know.”

Sherlock’s pout was adorable, but an adorable distraction nonetheless. “I was thinking perhaps we could bypass the conventional preliminaries and just skip to anal sex.”

Well, now that was an idea. John allowed himself a wistful moment before turning back to his friend. “Not off the table. But first, you need to tell me what’s going on in that brilliant brain of yours.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly and licked a stripe over John’s exposed nipple, making his lower abdominal muscles clench. John hissed and pulled on Sherlock’s curls, and the moan from his friend’s lips was obscene. It was with grim determination John didn’t chase those lips and settled back against the pillow. “Right. First thing’s first. You could have just said you wanted this. There was no reason to have an experiment.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled onto his back, apparently coming to terms with his fate. “Says the man who constantly announces how ‘not gay’ he is every time innuendo rolls his way.”

“I’m not gay,” John cheeked, “So what does that tell you?”

Sherlock’s eyes momentarily widened. “Of course.”

“Don’t tell me you deleted that.”

“Well, it _has_ occurred to me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, as though he hadn’t deleted the entire solar system once but determined the definition of bisexuality was worth keeping. “But you never dated any men.”

“And have them trying to shag my roommate?” John snorted in irritation. “As if I’d give them the chance.” Having one of John’s dates seduced by Sherlock, while not exactly probable once the detective dismantled them with deductions, would have sent John into a fit of jealous rage.

“Your technique thus far has proved more than adequate to secure a relationship with the masculine gender.” Sherlock smirked and John felt his cheeks go hot with the compliment.

“Nevertheless,” John said to clear his throat. “I wouldn’t have been comfortable.”

“And you are comfortable now because…?” Sherlock queried. John detected a hesitant, soft tone to his friend’s tone.

“Because it’s with _you_ , you great git.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with that curiosity that always put John on edge. “That’s right, you said you’d been wanking off to me for _days_ , did you not? I only started the second stage of the experiment last night.” Sherlock looked very much like the cat that got the cream. He issued a deep rumble from his throat and idly played with his own pink nipple. “ _Days_ , John.” Then he rolled over to look John squarely in the eyes with a sullen expression. “ _Only_ days?”

John scrubbed his face and tried to look severe but the inquisitive faye creature laying next to him wasn’t going to be fooled. “Fine. More than days. But I’ve been trying _not_ to think of you when I had a wank. I didn’t want to make you...uncomfortable. I know how you feel about The Work. And I didn’t want to risk...” John cut off, hoping Sherlock would take the hint that Sherlock’s supernatural cunning would have made his transgression readily apparent in time.

Sherlock seemed to judge his friend’s response adequate and snuggled closer to rub his knee against John’s thigh.

“And how long have you been wanting... _this_?” John steeled himself for Sherlock’s answer. Knowing Sherlock it could have been his first thought at breakfast before shower and he had no intention of indulging himself longer than the span of a few hours.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and gazed deeply into John’s eyes with an expression so sultry John wasn’t sure it was real. “Oh, _ages_ , John.” He leaned forward and painted a lick against John’s lips and John’s lower half was flooded with heat again.

John gritted his teeth against the sensation. Sherlock’s distractions were making coherent thought more than difficult. “Wait, you said last night. What did you do last night?”

“I rubbed my scent all over your sheets, John. Surely you noticed.” Sherlock mouthed at John’s nipple, continuing his ministrations with newfound voracity.

“Makes sense.” John breathed in exasperation.

Sherlock’s head bobbed up again with a dubious look. “It does?”

John giggled. “Yeah, it does. It’s very _you_.” Imagining Sherlock as a big black cat rubbing his cheeks on John’s belongings to mark ownership was an image John planned to hang onto for the rest of his life. “Wait, does Mycroft have any cameras in my room?” He mused aloud, hoping perhaps there was a way to obtain the evidence.

“Not anymore,” Sherlock rumbled, crawling back between John’s legs. Whether that was before of after Sherlock rubbed himself all over John’s room was anyone’s guess. If Mycroft had been anyone else, the doctor might have had pity on Sherlock’s older brother.

“Sherlock…” John started to fight the good fight for reason again, but was failing spectacularly when he felt Sherlock writhe his hips forward. John felt the velvety insistence of Sherlock’s prick slick between his thighs and tried not to raise his hips. He gripped his friend’s arms to steady his resolve. “Sherlock, I need to know where this is going.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s head fell against his chest. “Where do you want it to go?”

John took a deep breath. “You’re the World’s Only Consulting Detective, Sherlock. Where do you think I want it to go?”

“2.5 kids and a white picket fence. I can’t be that for you, John,” came the muffled reply. A shudder ran through the man’s back and John could barely believe what he was seeing.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, drawing Sherlock’s face up. If his friend was crying John thought he really might lose it. But the expression on Sherlock’s face was a very near thing. Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with a different kind of intensity. Something like desperation mixed with fervent hope. Hope was something he’d probably never allowed for himself before. It was so similar to the expression Sherlock wore the night John had offered to die for him at the pool. Had that been the moment? Where everything clicked?

John pulled Sherlock forward and pressed their foreheads together. “Now you listen to me. I have been in love with you from the moment we met.” Sherlock started to open his mouth but John interrupted him. “Shut it. From the moment we met, I knew I’d met the most amazing, brilliant man I would ever hope to meet and I _wanted_ you, even if it meant I’d only get to _watch_ you. That was going to be enough for me.” He paused and swallowed back his last vestiges of fear. “And if you want me, no matter how you want me, I will be there. So just...just tell me what you want.”

Sherlock looked at him in awe and fascinated astonishment. Then, in a voice so small John wondered if Sherlock really meant it to be heard, he said, “everything.”

John let out an undignified whine at Sherlock’s admission, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. He lurched forward to capture Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock moaned into the kiss and clutched at John’s arms. When they parted for breath, Sherlock leaned away, his lips swollen and red. “Now, if you don’t mind, John. I’d very much like you to fuck me now.” He winked in satisfaction as he retrieved lube from his bedside drawer. John made to get up but Sherlock swatted him back and covered his elegant fingers with lube. “Watch, John.”

Sherlock kept his back to John, spreading his legs apart and dipping his chest over John’s ankles, leaning on one elbow, while sliding the other arm in a tantalizing gesture over his back and hips. John watched in amazement as Sherlock’s slickened fingers circled the tight pucker of his flesh, sliding the tip of one into his hole. Both men moaned as Sherlock pressed in further to his knuckle, and the erotic wiggle of his hips nearly shorted out several circuits in John’s brain. Sherlock chuckled at John’s gaping expression but his movements stuttered when John ran a finger over the one Sherlock had pressed into his arse. “Let me,” John whispered reverently, “Christ, Sherlock, let me.” Sherlock answered by handing John the bottle and spreading his cheeks even further apart, balancing on his knees with the effort. John wished to hell he had a mind palace to record the image properly and blinked a few times before he slid his entire index into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock choked back a gasp and rolled his hips.

“More, John,” he huffed and let his head fall back.

John leaned closer and rested his jaw against the soft globe of Sherlock’s arse and breached him with a second finger, watching as the tight muscle widen even further. With a needy whine, Sherlock sank back, and John, feeling mischievous, crooked his fingers, lightly brushing the soft pad of Sherlock’s prostate. The other man bit off a cry as his legs seemed to momentarily fail him.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to be inside you,” John murmured against his friend’s dimpled cheek. For several minutes John was captivated watching his fingers sliding in and out of his best friend, whose hips undulated with every thrust, his leaking cock nudging against the cotton between John’s legs seeking friction.

“More John!” Sherlock growled petulantly through gritted teeth. John answered with a bruising bite to Sherlock’s arse before adding another digit. Sherlock yelped and bucked forward, then sunk back against John’s hand in bliss.

“Greedy one, aren’t you? Can’t say I’m surprised,” John admonished, before Sherlock wrapped those sinfully long fingers around John’s prick and pulled at his raging erection. “Chist!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and grinned darkly, his eyes glittering black in the sunlight from the window. “Just...making sure you’re ready for me.” He squeezed John’s cock and it was everything for John not to come right then. The sight of Sherlock’s wanton sexuality was not a sight he’d ever imagined, but one he would surely give his life to witness.

“Oh God... _fuck._ That’s good, John,” Sherlock breathed before he spun and faced John again. The expression on Sherlock’s face usually signaled mortal danger, but Sherlock leaned forward again for a bruising kiss. Hard enough that John didn’t notice Sherlock had guided John’s cock between the cheeks of his arse. “Ready?” Sherlock panted into John’s mouth and John nodded dumbly, feeling a wash of adrenaline invade his system.

The sensation of Sherlock’s body sinking onto his cock exploded behind John’s eyes. Both men looked down to where they were joined and shared a groan. Sherlock’s cock bobbed obscenely against his stomach and he hissed when he started to move. Slowly at first, he lifted his hips and lowered himself until John was fully seated inside him. This was happening, John marveled. He was inside Sherlock bloody Holmes, stretching him completely. The tight heat of Sherlock’s arse clenched around him and John struggled not to let his eyes roll back for fear of missing a single moment. The noises Sherlock made when he started to ride him were filthy and whorish. Sherlock circled his own nipple with one hand and pinched at the pebbled flesh, whimpering as John plunged into him, tipping his head back to reveal the tall column of pale skin. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. _Glorious._ So bloody gorgeous.

“Fuck, John...Your cock…” Sherlock panted as he bounced against John’s thighs and bit his lip. John’s head lolled back and his muscles strained to go deeper.

“Christ, you feel so good. Fucking _made_ for me. So hot, tight, Jesussss…” John managed somehow, grasping Sherlock’s hips and bruising the flesh with his hands. Sherlock threaded his fingers through his curls and swiveled his hips in response and John bit back a yelp. “Not. Gonna. Last…like that you, git...”

Sherlock licked his fingers and trailed them across John’s lips and pushed them into John’s mouth. John sucked on the fingers eagerly, licking between the digits, then watched as Sherlock brought them back to his mouth only to suckle them some more. This was the most pornographic thing John had ever seen, but then Sherlock _spoke_.

“Come inside me then, John.” The detective’s baritoned voice seemed to reverberate through his chest straight to John’s bollocks and Sherlock grinned triumphantly. John managed to swing his hand forward and grip Sherlock’s cock, purple and oozing pre-come down the length of his shaft. Sherlock’s body jerked with the stimulation and his eyes lit with surprise, and he rambled the incantation of _John, John, John_...over and over again until his body pulled taught and he came apart with a silent scream. Sherlock’s cock pulsed thick white spurts, striping John’s chest, and John felt a crescendo of electricity unspool in his belly.

“Oh god, oh god, Sherlock, I love you so much,” John wailed and then felt his body just _shatter_. Sherlcock’s muscles fluttered around his cock and John felt the white heat of his release filling Sherlock, dripping out of his arse and coating the sheets between them. Sherlock milked him for every drop, then spasmed a few more times before he fell in a boneless heap on John’s shoulder, gulping for air.

After several minutes of arguing who should get the flannel John acquiesced, padding back into the room and sinking down next to a luxuriating cat of a man. John snickered and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him inquisitively. “What?” He asked defensively.

“Nothing, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

“You’re like a big cat, Sherlock.” John giggled. “Like a big bloody cat, who just marked his scent all over my bedroom.”

Sherlock smirked. “Worked didn’t it?”

John swatted him. “It didn’t have to work.” He leaned down and whispered into Sherlock’s ear seductively. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve marked myself all over you now.”

John was permitted a moment’s satisfaction before a light brightened Sherlock’s features. “Oh!”

“Jesus no, Sherlock, no more experiments,” John moaned and pulled his friend, no lover, into an embrace. “I will love you till the end of time, but just, talk to me first before you start a stash of my semen, yeah?”

“Duly noted, John.” Sherlock sulked but pulled himself to lay against John’s chest. And it was faint, not quite a whisper, but John was sure he heard, “And I love you too.”

  
  
  



End file.
